


All We Are

by hobbitsandlocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I took artistic liberties alright, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Teenlock, john is a sweetheart, sherlock has a shitty childhood, sherlock is extremely self-conscious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:19:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsandlocks/pseuds/hobbitsandlocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a rough childhood, Sherlock heads to uni to meet one John Watson, someone who turns his life on its head and leaves him dizzy and panting in his wake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Incendiary

I remember the moment distinctly. I came home from school, the drawing cradled to my chest, my hands stiffly flat so as to discourage wrinkling. To my parents, I presented this gem, alight and giddy with the naivety of youth. I recall Mummy’s brows developing that crease of concern, and myself swallowing, unsure of the error in my actions. She passed the drawing to my father, her lips pressing in a thin line, her lipstick almost blotted out with the sheer force of her scowl. I cocked my head, still confused. From under his glasses, my father sent a worried glance in my direction, leaning over to whisper something in my mother’s ear. He then bent down so he was at my level, a mere four and a half feet at that age (hormones had yet to take control of the elongation of my form). His hand, the one not clenching the paper, reached out to rest on my shoulder, then pulled back like I was a disease, not to be contacted for fear of malignance. He cleared his throat, not deigning to meet my eyes. “Sherly, sweetie,” he whispered in a voice that offered no hint of comfort or empathy, “what is this?” I remember being confused, so I just furrowed my brow and pointed to a shape in the drawing. “That’s me,” I explained, wondering why parents could be so daft when it was all so simple. “Sherlock.” My father looked up at Mummy, his eyes betraying his shock. He stood up, and they both stared down at me, and it was all so strange an occurrence that I just wanted to sit down so I could puzzle out an answer. My head throbbed with questions. I blinked a bit, surprised at the stinging upwelling of tears. In hushed tones, they conversed fervently, and I made a hasty retreat to my bedroom. There, I stripped off my school dress, untied my hair ribbons, and stood, nakedly vulnerable. The chill of the old house raised goosebumps on my skin, and I shivered. Noiselessly, I ran out of my bedroom, socked feet patting on the floor. Slowly, I opened the door to my brother’s room and made a beeline for his dresser, praying he was still at school for his extracurriculars. From the drawers, I grabbed slacks and a collared shirt. They would be too large, I knew, but I would eventually grow into the pilfered material. I padded back to my room and pulled on the trousers, not even needing to unbutton the shirt to slip it over my head. Flopping down on the bed, I closed my eyes and wished I could metamorphose.  
___  
In seventh grade, we were forced to take a social dance class. I begged Mycroft to utilize whatever pull he had with the teachers to relieve me of the obligation, but resistance, ultimately, was futile. The gymnasium was stuffy and reeked with the rank odor of teenage sweat. We were to pair up, boy and girl, and learn the foxtrot. What a ghastly name for a dance, I remember thinking, especially since it neither is a trot nor possesses any relation to the way a fox moves. No matter my distaste for the dance, I was forced to comply or risk my otherwise perfect marks, so I attended. At that point, my hair was still long, almost to my shoulders, and I wore any array of horrible, constricting skirts and dresses provided by my parents. When I declined to wear such garments, they smiled sweetly and threatened my curfew. However, during this particular two-week period in which I learned all the appropriate mannerisms regarding the utterly fascinating topic of proper dance etiquette, my parents were in America for some sort of business conference, and Mycroft had always turned a blind eye to my actions, so I was able to wear what I pleased. One such day, I wore a button down and trousers, concealing about three sports bras that I had layered. The constricting fabric made breathing an arduous effort, but the appearance the sheathing layers offered was prize enough that I endured the torture. One day, I swore, I would bully Mycroft into taking me to an army-surplus store and getting me one of those chest-binder things women in the service wore tuck it all in, but for now, the sports bras had to do. Anyway, I went to the class, and was greeted by the affront of the teacher sorting the class into two distinct groups. Maybe it would be better to just skip. However, jeopardizing my chance at a top Uni because I was too chicken to take a damn dance class was out of the question, so I merely tied my hair into a ponytail and strode into the gymnasium. My hands fisted in the pockets of my trousers, I tried to amalgamate into the group made up of my fellow classmen, but the teacher spied me before my action could go unnoticed. “Sherly,” she crowed, effectively turning the attention of the entire class onto me, “girls’ group.” I scowled, rolling my eyes and sending her a stare of utmost distaste. I stalked over to stand with the girls, who immediately established a two-foot radius around me. Sighing, I slouched, awaiting further instruction.  
“Alright. Though it seems some of you have no regard for punctuality (cue evil glare thrown in my direction), I believe it is time to begin. Fellows, grab a lady and stand just so.” She assumed a straighter posture, but I drowned out the rest of her speech as a sharp dread carved its way into my gut and refused to budge. Fellows, grab a lady ricocheted around in my brain. I scanned the room, understood that the boys would as much as dance with me as they would fancy a dip in a pool of acid. Dancing with me would be social suicide, and I knew it. Still the pathogen, as my parents had recognized so many years before. I sniffed, spun on my heel, ignoring the protestations of my teacher. Screw perfect marks.  
I had learned to suppress emotions years before; becoming inured to the almost-daily jeers and hisses of “freak” was easier than expected. Even so, I found it difficult to staunch the tears that bit at the corners of my eyes. I quickened my pace, throwing the door of the gymnasium open and stalking out. The sunlight was bright on my face, and I knew I should feel guilty. Since I was cutting class, I felt I should probably do something daring, make a memory of this day, but instead, I just returned home. Running up the stairs to my parent’s bathroom, I untied my ponytail and grabbed a pair of scissors, positioning them right above my left earlobe. The snick of the blades upon their connection was thrilling, as was the sight of the swath of hair that fell in their wake. I repeated the action on the direct opposite side of my skull and surveyed my handiwork. Not great, but passable. Certainly better than before. I’d always been thin, slightly androgynous, but with short hair, I verged on masculine. Grinning, I washed the hair down the sink, not caring one fucking bit for my parents’ precious plumbing. I retired to my bedroom, and flopped down on my bed. Slowly, a grin cut across my face, and I laughed. Loud, cacophonous peals of mirth that compromised my already restricted air supply rocked through me, and for the first time, I realized what it felt like to wake up after a long, Arthurian slumber, and rise from my watery grave to become the person the shadows of dreams had promised I would be.


	2. Crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, Mycroft is a supportive brother and Victor is a douchenoodle.

“FUCKING HELL, MYCROFT!” I yell as he pushes open the door to the bathroom. I am half-naked, an ace bandage wrapped around my chest (I hadn’t had time to secure it before the oaf barged in) and my pants riding low on my hips. My arms wrap protectively over my upper torso, and my snarl is barely contained. “Get. Out.,” I growl lowly, injecting my features with hateful menace. Mercifully, he closes the door, and I let out a breath that I wasn’t aware I was holding. After I finish getting dressed, tugging on my nearly uniform-ready button-down and trousers, I shove out into the living room, my shoulders rounded, scowl drawn: the picture of surliness. Mycroft was sitting on the sofa, not daring to meet my eyes. I hadn’t told him; I assumed he knew, but I guess he must’ve just thought I hadn’t really hit puberty yet. A laughable idea, considering I am a senior in high school. However, when I meet his eyes, I realize the sight of my bound chest had merely confirmed a hypothesis. Mycroft, it seems, is more perceptive than I give him credit. I chew on my lip, going over possible courses of actions in my mind. I settle on self-preservative. “Look, I don’t care what you think, just don’t tell Mummy and Father.” His eyes train on mine, and the harshness that I’d always thought an integral part of him falls away.   
“Sherly…?” The name is a question, not a summons.  
“It’s Sherlock.”   
“Mummy wouldn’t like it.” He presses his mouth shut, looking pained.  
“To some extent, she probably knows, but she doesn’t need the confirmation.”  
His gaze softened. He understands. And what he says next, despite how he’s handling this with seeming understanding, shocks me. “There are doctors for this sort of thing, aren’t there? You’ll need to see an endocrinologist, am I right?” My eyes widen, and I nod stiffly. “I’ll make the calls,” he offers, and the subtlety of his compassion nearly knocks the breath from my chest.  
“Thank you.” I nod again, then extend my hand. He takes it, and our eyes meet. I smile, fractionally, but it’s gone in an instant. Curtly, I shake his hand, and then I make a hasty retreat to my room. While my laptop boots up, I think about Uni. There, I can finally abandon the horrid Sherly and don the infinitely more suitable Sherlock, assimilating not into the populace but into my own self. Maybe I’ll go to London. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.  
I fall asleep with that word on my lips, not yet daring to form the ‘if’ of my life into a ‘when’.  
**  
The dorm is small, barely large enough to accommodate two twin beds and a desk. There is a window in the eastward side, and the walls are unfinished brick. It’s cramped, not as much cozy as shifty, and it has a terrible updraft.

And I love it. Away from home, I fit comfortably into my name and become that for which I’ve been waiting my whole life to this point.

Under my parents’ noses, Mycroft helped me get a strict regimen of hormones, dispelling the last vestiges of femininity from my form. I’m still slight, I’ll never be especially buff, the doctor says, but I shaved my first growth of stubble last month and still feel infinitely giddy as a result. Sitting on the bed closest to the window, I shuck my bag on the floor and await the arrival of my roommate. My head turns as I hear the click of a key in the lock, and I watch as the door swings open.  
The boy who steps into the dorm is absolutely gorgeous. His hair is tawny, his freckles a sparse dusting over the bridge of his nose. Thick lashes hide eyes that glint with a color I can only describe as seafoam. He’s tall. Lithe. Confident. He introduces himself as Victor, Victor Trevor.   
I stand, offering my hand. “Sherlock Holmes.” I brace myself for the once over, for that split second in which the person I’m meeting realizes my name doesn’t match up with my appearance. I await that sudden change in his eyes, but it never comes. I’ve passed.   
“Pleasure.” His voice is low and sultry, and it sends a pang through my stomach. I’d never really given thought to my sexuality, just accepted attractions as they came, knowing I’d never be able to act on them. But here, here, all bets were off.   
“Indeed.” I flash my eyes up and down his frame, looking him over. I have no idea as to the general direction of his sexual orientation, but don’t really care. I’m high on life, as they say, and completely willing to disregard the thought of my actions’ ramifications. My lips curl up in a small smile, which he reciprocates, and I realize we still haven’t broken our handshake. Definitely not heterosexual, I think, but I’m unsure whether I’m referring to him or myself. “Tell me, Victor, are you new to London?”  
“Actually, no,” he flashes a small smile. “Born and raised in Big Ben’s shadow.”  
“Would you mind showing me around? I’m not from the city.” I’m throwing caution into the wind, blatantly hitting on a man I’ve known but three minutes. And fucking hell, I like it. It’s aerating, freeing in a way. Intoxicating. I feel the buzz of adrenaline in my veins.   
“Well, Sherlock, there’s a party for the undergrads in one of the dorms tonight. For newbies and natives alike.” He chuckles. I grin.

**  
The lights are off in the dorm as we stumble across the doorway, fumbling at each others’ zippers and buttons. His mouth tastes of beer and smoke, a combination that should be off-putting but coalesces into an entirely heady sensation that drives lust sharply into my core. He somehow gets my jacket off, and begins to unbutton my shirt, but my hand slaps onto his wrist. My eyes are pleading, but he’s wasted, and consent is not an issue at the forefront of his mind. He keeps worrying at my buttons, and protestations rise in my throat, not that I don’t want this, but I know that if he sees—  
“Oh.” His voice is cold, sobriety seeming to hit him. My shirt is open, exposing the binding material around my chest. It’s not something I can write off as an undershirt, the material is indicative of my very specific situation. His eyes run over me, and I wither under his scrutiny. Seconds stretch by until he wrenches his wrist from my grip on it. “Oh.” His voice is hollow, but there’s a hint of malice, ready to rear it’s head. And rear it does.   
“You fucking freak.” The words ring clearly, in sharp contrast to the fevered kissing and slurred speech of before. I shrink. “You tricked me—is this some sort of sick joke?”  
“Victor--,” my voice is pleading. I hate it.  
“Did the other girls put you up to this? How much did they pay you to see if you could get one of the faggots off?” His harshness brands the air, and I feel tears begin to sting my eyes.  
“Victor, please--“  
He pushes me away, shoves me at arms length. “Get the hell away from me. Get out.” I inch along the wall until I’ve hit the doorway, and I step into the hall. The door locks behind me.  
Just fucking perfect. A week before my freshman finals, and I’m without a roommate, without a boyfriend, and completely, utterly, alone. It’s not as though Victor’s presence was ever that extraordinary, but the absence of him, his casual flirtation, his comforting touch, is bone-numbing. It drills through me, and I feel weightless.  
I walk along the corridor, eventually slumping against a doorframe. I don’t really care who finds me. My head falls back against the door, and I realize I have nothing—I didn’t even have time to grab my clothes. Mercifully, my phone is in my pocket, but an iphone cannot magic a blanket for warmth. I shiver. My eyes close. I assumed sleep would evade me, but it slams into me like a tidal wave. Like a powerful narcotic, exhaustion grabs hold of me and bites into my brain, silencing any thought.


	3. and out of the darkness, you bloom like a beacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about sex, baby.   
> Literally, talk. That's all that goes on. Sorry :3

I awake to the subtle skritch of doorhinges, my head suddenly lacking support behind it. Regaining consciousness, I concentrate all my energy on not toppling backward into the suddenly cavernous open space behind me. I’m aware of a light shining somewhere, but I’m disoriented and cannot make out the exact direction. My eyes squeeze shut of their own accord, and I become suddenly conscious that my head is pounding in time with my rapid heartbeat. I remember drinks last night with Victor, but then—  
Shit.  
I groan and sit up, then realize I’m probably making a fool of myself in front of whoever opened the damn door, and try to shove the memories of last night into a corner of my brain where they can wait to be examined later. Or not at all, for that matter. My head turns sharply at the sound of a man’s voice carrying from a little ways above me. “Who the hell are you?”  
Shakily, I get to my feet, fumbling to button my shirt before I turn to face the voice’s bearer. Once that’s sorted, I turn, blink a few times (I must look wasted as fuck), and give him the most scrutinizing once-over I can while trying desperately to hang onto my dignity. He’s not tall, but he’s well-built with that muscular stockiness only rugby players possess. His hair is sandy, neither blonde nor brown, but somewhere in-between, but it almost looks golden in contrast to his icy blue irises. In a tshirt and boxers, he should feel underdressed, but he holds himself with a confidence of which I find myself in envy. I sniff. “Sherlock Holmes. Yourself?” Good. Voice not slurred, or shaky; slightly arrogant. I still retain some sobriety.  
“John Watson. And to what, may I ask, do I owe the pleasure of finding you passed out drunk at my door?” His voice isn’t cold, nor is it inviting. However, considering the circumstances, I don’t think he’s going to begin throwing punches or cursing me out, so I consider that a plus.  
“Flatmate threw me out.” I opt for direct. No use lying; he seems perceptive enough to pick out an untruth. At these words, his eyes betray concern.   
“What a prick.” This assessment, along with his lack of immediate questioning, earns instant points in his favor, and I feel my mouth twitching with a smirk.  
“Indeed.” He smiles a bit, and we kind of just stand there. He shuffles his feet. It suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea of the time. “Um, John…do you happen to know if it’s predawn?”  
John laughs. Laughs. Was my speech not colloquial enough? I frown. “Yeah, mate, it’s a little after midnight.” I nod, and my frown deepens.  
“How come you weren’t asleep?”  
His grin falls into a tight-lipped grimace. “Nightmares. I was just fixing myself a cuppa with this little kitchenette thing I’ve got here.” Again, I nod. “I can make you one, if you want.”  
This offer catches me off-guard. I find myself quite liking this idea, however, so I smile. “Actually, that sounds brilliant.”   
John’s flat is a single, as is apparent in the cramped quality of the room that becomes obvious the minute I step through the door. Somehow, he’s managed to cram a bed, a little table, and a chair into the main area. Off to the side, there is an alcove, a microwave sitting on a little outcropping of counter. I am unsure of whether I will actually fit into the positively minute space, but John seems to have faith, and he pulls out a chair at the table. “The tea’ll be just a moment.”   
I sit down and tap my fingers against the table. John arrives almost instantaneously with two steaming mugs, kicking a chair away from the table and somehow worming his way down into it as his hands are still occupied with the drinks. Once settled, he hands me mine, and my hands close around the hot ceramic. I almost groan, the warmth against my shivering hands induces a near-orgasmic spasm of tactile relief. He chuckles.   
“Freezing, were you?”  
“Just a bit.” I crack a smirk.  
“Speaking of cold, let’s talk about that flatmate of yours.” He sips his tea, awaiting my launch into discussion. It doesn’t come. Instead, my hands shake. John furrows his brow and leans forward. “God, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “You don’t have to tell me anything. After all,” he laughs drily, “we just met fifteen minutes ago.”  
“No, it’s fine.” I’m surprised with my own willingness to talk to this man. He’s…comforting, somehow. Maybe it’s just the presence of a willing listener, but I find myself drawn to his company. “He…disliked some things…erm…about me.” Nice going, I berate myself. I’ve gone and been cryptic, only to push John further in the dark. He tilts his head, obviously not wanting to pry, but still seeming infinitely curious. I sigh.  
“Things?” John repeats, seeking an explanation.  
“He believes I lied to him about things that I deemed unimportant, things that should be unimportant, and when he and I engaged in a relationship those…things…were revealed.” One look at John’s face, and I realize I’ve muddled my clarity. “Look, sorry to be cryptic, but it’s all just fresh.”   
“’S alright.” He looks down at his tea, and I’m shocked to find that he’s blushing. “So. You and he…? You’re…?”  
“Gay?” I supplied. “Not exactly.”  
“Oh.” His face falls. Am I missing something? “But…bisexual, then?” I can see him internally hitting himself, and he hurries to compensate. “Sorry. That was uncalled for. All I’m saying is, it’s all fine.”  
All fine. It’s all fine. All of it, really? “As far as sexuality goes, I don’t really consider labels to be my area.”   
He sighs audibly. I now realize that I am missing a piece in this equation, an integral piece that’ll tell me why John’s disappointment ebbs and flows with new information I divulge about my sexual preferences, why he blushes when I talk about Victor, why…  
Oh shit. He’s attracted to me, goddamnit.   
His voice is tenuous. “So…you sleep with both blokes and chicks?” What an awkward conversation. Especially considering, as John pointed out himself, we’ve known each other a little under a half-hour.  
“Sleep with?” I shake my head. “Not at this current junction, no. I have not been deflowered yet.” This sends him into a fit of giggles, and I tilt my head. “What?” I almost spit.   
“Just…deflowered.” He says through peals of laughter. “Fucking Christ, Sherlock, you’re hilarious.”   
I find myself smiling against my better judgment. In the back of my mind, there’s that nagging doubt, sinking its teeth into my euphoria, whispering if he only knew. If he only knew, Sherlock.


	4. that's where my demons hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> basically here I give you fluff before the angst attack of chapter five

Against my better judgment, when John asks me to dinner a few weeks later, I accept. I’m unaccustomed to the thrill of anticipation that runs through my veins at the prospect, and I have to bite my lip in order to ground my rapidly elevating expectations. After all, I know how this is going to end. It’ll be nice until he finds out. Then, it’ll fall one of two ways: the awkward silence and sudden disinterest, or the volatile explosion favored by the likes of Victor. This, I am sure of. I don’t need a large sample size to verify this prediction when the previous results are so overwhelmingly unanimous.  
Despite my foresight, I find myself jittery during classes on the day of the date. After the physics lecture, my last class of the day, I rush back to John’s dorm (we’ve been cohabiting ever since my sudden discharge from Victor’s company) and change from my dark jeans into trousers. In the morning, I can’t be bothered to formalize my dress; I sleep in my jeans and thus, wear them to classes. I don’t admit to myself that I’ve been more somnolent in John’s presence, sleeping longer hours and generally waking up shockingly well-rested. I don’t want to think about the implications of this observation, as I know whatever pleasantries I’m experiencing now are not to last.   
I’m sitting on John’s couch when I hear him open the door. “Oy, sorry,” he called, “I had to talk with the prof about dropping the class.” Narrowing my eyes, I look up. “Student loans are obscene with all the credits I’m taking, which I conveniently realized right after I’d set up all my classes for second semester,” he offers by way of an explanation, visibly biting back the sarcasm. I stand, a sudden feeling of awkwardness washing over me, and then I mentally curse myself out because self-consciousness is really not my area. As if his sole purpose is to further prompt a blush to rise in my cheeks, John’s eyes flick up and down over me. I cringe slightly, and am met by a visible dilation of his pupils. “God, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but you’re bloody gorgeous.” Smiling sheepishly, I offer my arm to him.  
“As are you, my dear Watson. Now, shall we go to sample the trés elegante cuisine as is offered by the campus café?” My feeble attempt at flirtation is met with naught but grinning enthusiasm, and I feel an upwelling in my stomach that I refuse to acknowledge.  
“A capital idea, Holmes. However, seeing as I’m a broke-ass pre-med, I’m sorry to say you will be paying tonight.”  
“A non-issue. After all, the man always pays on the first date.” Heh.  
He shoves me. “Are you attempting a dig at my masculinity, Holmes? I’m affronted.”  
“Not at all. I’m merely asserting myself as the gentleman, were we a Victorian couple and you my swain.” I suddenly blushed, realizing my error. “I didn’t mean to imply…,” I trailed off, my quick rebuttal of my own statement dying on my tongue with one look at John’s face.   
His eyes are bright, as if backlit, and his cheeks are aglow; the stress of his debts lifting off his features. I can’t help stopping, grounding to a halt on the chilly street, my breath fogging the space between us. I want, I want, I want; want the comfortable ease and flirty banter between us to transform into something heated, something fervent. I want close proximity and intertwined limbs and idea sharing. If my brief time with John thus far is any indication, I want him, and it fucking scares me because I know my desires are so wholly unachievable. My face falls, and I turn forward. We keep walking, feet crushing the light coating of frost on the sidewalk.

**  
In the end, it’s John that bridges the gap between us, both physically and metaphorically: that gap between the past and present, between platonic and decidedly not so; the gap between our lips and mouths and bodies. Ultimately, it’s John that reaches over the table, grasps my shirt lapels, and drags my mouth to his, getting a copious amount of alfredo sauce on his shirtsleeve but ignoring it entirely. It’s John whose eyes darken as he throws my coat over my shoulders immediately after we pay the waitress, and it’s John who grabs my hand and pulls me out of the restaurant only to kiss me viciously on the doorstep. John is a whirlwind. I am merely along for the ride.  
I’d thought our positions would be reversed—after all, I’m the speeding lunatic and he’s my steady beacon—but I’ve found that where John leads, I’m content to follow. And hell, does he lead. Once we’ve returned to his dorm, barely containing our buzzing excitement, he presses me against his doorframe and utterly dissects me with kisses, taking me apart and strengthening me simultaneously. I almost don’t notice as his hand brushes over my shirt buttons, a mirror of Victor’s actions a month ago, but suddenly I’m on auto-defense, grabbing his wrist and hauling him away. I breathe heavily, utterly suspended between magnetized poles of terror and need. Bringing my palms to scrub over my face, I realize I must go forward with this. If John doesn’t understand, I know he will at least let me down gently; his compassion is inarguable. I exhale shakily and unbutton my shirt, letting it rest on my bony shoulders as if on a wire hanger. John’s eyes rake over my chest, and I can almost see the explanation filling itself in, like a somber version of Mad Libs.   
He steps forward, and instinctively, I shrink back. Slowly, he leans so he’s on tiptoe, and presses a kiss to my forehead. Here comes the let down.   
But the blow I’ve suspected is still at bay, and I let myself raise my eyes to meet his. And then it comes, but not in the form I suspected. Sure, the breath’s still knocked out of me, but it’s because I’ve read the want and the protectiveness and the absolute, undeniable need written in John’s face, and suddenly my mouth is on his and I don’t know who initiated it but I sure as hell know I won’t be the one to break apart.   
Somehow, we make it to his bed, and I begin to have a hard time discerning the physical actions of everything because I’ve completely lost myself in John’s embrace and his mouth and his fucking beautiful pectorals and abdominals and, dear God, he’s a lesson in perfect anatomy. My teachers would be impressed. Vitruvian man ain’t got nothin’ on one John Watson.  
And after…after what, I’m unsure, just that it was wonderful and perfect and worthy of every applicable positive adjective in the English language, John murmurs, “you’re still the most bloody gorgeous bloke I know,” and I know I’ve broken out of the cocoon, metamorphosis complete.


End file.
